


It'll Have to Do

by Rhoadstar



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Humiliation, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pity Sex, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhoadstar/pseuds/Rhoadstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tracks is an asshole. Cosmos seems OK with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It'll Have to Do

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt is at the end of the ficlet! My writing is pretty rough and stilted but I'm working on it! I'm better at writing individual scenes rather than actual fics, it would seem.
> 
> Anyhoo
> 
> I uh
> 
> ...sorry not sorry?

There is not enough high-grade in the world to make himself enjoy this, Tracks decides with a grimace.

Short and round, with thick thighs and wide hip plating, one would have to have a _specific_ sort of fetish to find anything about Cosmos attractive, let alone beddable. A garish paint job of bright green and golden yellow, not to mention the red helm, does nothing to dissuade his observation, and, oh, Primus, that is _orange_ _detailing_. Tracks suppresses a shudder and works a third digit into the soaking wet mesh of Cosmos's port to distract himself. The heat, slickness, and pressure is _almost_ enough to focus his attention on other things.

Almost.

He curls his fingers perfunctorily, presses against the hidden, charge laced ceiling nodes and the minibot’s gasping takes on a new, telling pitch. Cosmos’s wriggling on the berth gets a little bit more erratic, and thick, chunky thighs clamp a little bit tighter around Tracks’s forearm armor. The distinct odor of overheated circuits and lubricant overpowers even the sharp tang of high-grade Tracks is emitting. If it had been anyone else- say Sunstreaker or Mirage- this would have had his engine turning over willingly.

As it was, even with him moaning helplessly as he grinds down against Tracks’s palm, Cosmos is the furthest thing from sexy in his mind.

In fact, he is quite possibly the ugliest thing he’s ever fucked.

If the minibot’s flinch and hurt expression is any indication, the Corvette muses, he actually said that last part out loud. Oops.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Tracks drawls in response to the overly bright glow of Cosmos’s optics (possibly the only attractively shaped component on the minibot to begin with). “I’m simply speaking the truth. Doesn’t matter how much high grade I consume, you’re simply _not_ getting any prettier.” He scissors his fingers apart viciously when Cosmos opens his mouth, not wanting to listen to the ugly little bot complain. Instead of a reprimand, the minibot squeals, lets out a strangled moan, and there is the sudden sensation of warm wetness splashing into Tracks’s palm.

Cosmos’s vents work overtime to cool his heated frame. “I-I just wish you wouldn’t say things like that when we’re… when we’re doing this,” he pants, the tingling aftermath of his overload clearly ruined by Tracks’s cruel observations. In response, the Corvette pulls his hand free from between Cosmos’s thighs and gives it a firm shake to rid itself of the thick lubricants coating it. The majority of the mess splashes onto Cosmos’s plating and Tracks hardly gives it a second glance.

“You say that like this is something _normal_ for us,” Tracks mutters, and sits up to retrieve the cube of high-grade he has been steadily consuming since he accepted the timid offer to join Cosmos in the minibot’s quarters. “My acquiescence to share myself with you for one night has given you some truly bizarre ideas about our relationship.” He sways only a little bit as he downs the last few swallows, feeling his systems hum from the boost to his systems. The berth shifts as Cosmos adjusts himself, and a tentative hand hovers around the area of Tracks’s shoulder. The minibot seems oblivious to the sudden tension in Tracks’s field as he gently rests his hand on smooth plating, and the Corvette firmly sets down his empty cube. The glare he gives Cosmos’s hand is enough to make the UFO flinch anew.

“I’m sorry,” Cosmos murmurs, and meekly pulls his hand away, “I forgot you didn’t… let me make it up to you…?” Boldly, he casts his optics in the direction of Tracks’s interfacing array before returning them to the larger bot’s face.

What little charge Tracks has immediately dissipates. “Ugh, can you not? If you think for one minute I’m going to let you put any part of that hideous junk you call plating near my perfection, you’ve got another thing coming.”

He swings his legs over the side of the berth and makes to stand. That was _it_.

**Author's Note:**

> Kink Meme Prompt: I would like to see a fic where Tracks throws Cosmos a bone (he's probably sloppy drunk), and, being so desperate for acknowledgment and the attention from a relatively popular and attractive bot, Cosmos allows himself to be treated like absolute slag during the whole thing. In the end, the power trip Tracks gains from the experience makes him use Cosmos's compliance with the entire situation as blackmail material (after all, nobody can say anything about it if Cosmos didn't say 'no' and even encouraged it). 
> 
> Cosmos, while he knows the whole thing is wrong, finds some sort of twisted bliss in finally having someone who wants him, even if it's for all the wrong reasons.


End file.
